


Songs of the Prophetess' Disciple

by hilbertastronaut



Category: Nibelungenlied
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-02-26 22:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilbertastronaut/pseuds/hilbertastronaut
Summary: A retelling of the second book of the Nibelungenlied, as a college sorority cult.  This is a work in progress and may stay that way for a while.I'm being quite cautious with the warnings.  As I post more chapters, I will adjust the tags.





	1. Invocation

That which was once i  
calls to you, oh Huntress,  
You Who have slain it,  
to let speak this long-silent tale.  
Your brother guide my hand on the lyre  
as You dance.  
You, First-Honored,  
first and only Who spoke to me,  
hail to You in my song.


	2. Preludium

Tree-lined streets of apartments shading into old houses  
hid a red-brick church  
in whose loft an organist sat  
playing Sweelinck's Chromatic Fantasia.

She remembered the wrongness of it --  
the particular wrongness of the temperament  
(better suited to St. Louis Jesuits)  
(even though all temperaments had their own wrongness)  
and the wrongness of a mediocre parish organ  
though at least this one has real pipes.

Nevertheless, she plays,  
because she has a key to the organ loft  
and pay for Sundays, feasts, and rehearsals.

Clothes cost a lot. She makes her own,  
to cover: arms, shoulders, legs,  
whatever she didn't want to share with the world,  
which was nearly everything.  
Only her face showed,  
wisps of hair poked out of her bonnet  
(a too-delightful word).  
Authors would call them "mousy brown"  
and a long-forgotten feeling  
when she looked in her own eyes  
reminded her of the last drop of sherry  
left in the glass when the guest leaves.  
(These improper thoughts,  
she thinks as she reads her notebook.)

Rent costs a lot too.  
Weddings weren't worth the trouble  
and after that one time  
she wouldn't do them again,  
even if someone forgot and hired her.  
She sends those jobs to a fellow student.

For a while now, she had occasional night work  
in jazz  
of which she felt ashamed  
(not to judge jazz, but she did)  
but paying the rent was nice too.  
She wore a beret and bound herself tight  
so no one would look at her or ask questions.  
The other night, though,  
the trumpeter started asking questions.  
He wouldn't pay until he got answers  
so she fled,  
fingering the little knife she kept in her pocket.

When practicing, she always hitched up her gown a little bit  
so she wouldn't trip on the pedalboard.  
Would her funds last the coming semester?  
Probably not.  
She doesn't like looking down at her white stockings  
poking out from under the blue  
(of Mary's colour; sovegna vos),  
but few others had a loft key.

The priest had told her once about singles' night  
(at the parish, not the local bar).  
Was he maybe a bit afraid of her now?  
She wished she had a way  
of freezing people solid with a look  
but could never work up the courage to practice.

Something about this notebook  
in which she wrote down her thoughts at the time  
strikes her: namely that she never capitalized  
the word "i" -- it was the thing she understood  
even before her Mistress spoke it,  
the wickedness of letting that word  
stand erect and haughty above all other words  
as if one person could stand  
before the πλήρωμα of the embrace of night  
and assault it with the assertion of Self!

Tonight she would go  
to the talk that she saw scheduled  
in the student union  
on the bulletin board next to the ultimate frisbee club flyer.  
it was a talk on "religious feminism."  
The topic bored her  
(the conclusions obvious --  
as if humans needed coupling  
with those beasts who called themselves men)  
but something made her want to go,  
perhaps the grainy picture of a narrow face  
jet-framed  
and obsidian-eyed.

It was the face that had drawn her,  
she knew later,  
the face the last dozens saw  
in this world.


	3. Conductus

Nu saget mir friunt Volker, | ob ir mir welt gestân,  
ob mit mir wellent strîten | die Kriemhilde man?  
daz lâzet ir mich hœren, | als liep als ich iu sî.  
ich wonę iu immer mêre | mit triuwen díenstlíchen bi.

\-- Nibelungenlied 1777

"When you imagine yourself as being driven forward by compulsion, it’s much easier to resist the drag of conscience" -- excess drama from an overintellectualized sermon, she muttered to herself as she locked the tiny apartment door (more about uninvited guests than theft) and laboriously wound her way down the rickety back stairs to the street. Yet was it just the dance with heresy that made her heart race in her tree-lined procession past the little brick church and tree-shaded streets, past dorms of pimply pre-engineers and stately laboratories, the quad's evening buzz, through the grand white doors of the student union, into an anonymous conference room and a metal chair cold through layers? There was a rightness and a wrongness -- walking up to a springtime mountain torrent and knowing that it could only be crossed one way, feeling its edge's foam pass through one's fingers.

The guilty selfishness of hoping the room wouldn’t fill occupied her until someone stepped to the podium, who caught her breath and pinned her thoughts like butterflies: a Someone, tall and straight, a stride consuming ground through long black skirts, a hooded broad-shouldered Someone, with long dark face-framing hair -- a Someone who lifted her hood and scanned the crowd, with eyes glittering violet (a chiaroscuro trick?), grim and wary -- who with one passing look pierced her through ( _pertransiet gladius_ ) and through. Could she have known what death that Someone would bring?

The Speaker lifted her hood and spoke: some kind of myth -- an Eden, a brother and sister, a violation -- a breaking of symmetry -- the original sin, entrapment in the flesh -- the prison of desire and the unnatural rhythm of the natural world -- the living apart (that women should live apart, the thing she always knew) -- the slow purifying walk of redemption. (None of it mattered -- father truth; Mother necessity.) The living apart -- a practical thing -- a new community -- a convent of sorts; a redeemed old Greek house near campus -- a call to apply, to join. Interviews and a selection process (snickers from the audience). A perfunctory passing out of flyers. A halfhearted question or two by the local marxists. Some complicated theology that they laughed at. Literal laughing -- she felt guiltless outrage for the first time and wondered at herself, what she had become already, what she might further become -- the imagined knife heavy in her hand, the blood staining her knees.

She was alone again. The speaker left with her acolytes. She had the flyer, the phone number, would call and schedule an appointment, would enter the grand old columned brick house, would plead with some functionary and be rejected with little ceremony (she thought), would walk a failure (she thought) back to the tree-lined street with the little brick church and the cheapness of a parish council and the squeeze of rent (she thought). She thought many things, over and over, on her walk through dusk, as the afterimage of violet eyes transfixed her.


	4. Magnificat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ich hilf iu sicherlichen | sprach der spilman_  
>  _ob ich uns engegene | saehe den kunech selbe gan_  
>  _mit allen sinen recken | di wile ich leben muoz_  
>  _so entwich ich iu durch vorhte | nimmer einen fuoz_  
>  \-- Nibelungenlied 1778

_O thou, that art so fair and ful of grace,_  
_Be myn advocat in that heighe place_  
_Theras withouten ende is songe "Osanne,"_

she prayed, the loft left in the rear-view mirror,  
the car full (trunk tied tight with a fabric scrap),  
her heart light, though she had but an invitation  
and an appointment, perhaps not even with Her --  
Prophetess, Fore-Speaker of the World to Come --  
she was ready, whatever it meant: 

"We seek a protocantrix,  
a leader of the song  
(as our Lady of the Silver Moon);  
a liturgist, with ritual sense;  
room and board and benefits."

three greek letters' outlines struck fresh off  
the grand and quiet house among the trees --  
what debauchery the brothers practiced  
beyond their porch's pillars left no other mark.  
answering her knock, a mass of hair aflame  
and a face of steel: "your car is full -- what if  
we turn you back? where will you go?"

the flat answer: "i will take my things and die";  
she had no other plan. "very well, come in."  
the first test passed, she supposed, following  
the flaming hair through the creaking hall  
into the grand parlour: inner or outer?  
a pair of wingback chairs spoke the latter

as a business-suited stood extending a hand:  
"i am Eva, and your greeter here, Deidre" --  
whose steel eyes bowed slightly -- "you must be  
the musician, our new Cecilia." she did not wait.  
"i will speak with you now." a nod, and Deidre left  
with a narrow sideways glance. "please sit."

her second test, she thought: a good scolding  
from the holder of the house's purse-strings --  
devotion through suspicion, as all seneschals do.  
words were no harder to endure than sharp eyes;  
she need only nod, closed-mouthed, deferentially,  
and catch brief tidbits about mysterious benefactors.

the third test? her eyes' wondering drift earned  
a slap of words that made her cheek smart, but  
a childhood of showing obedience served her well.  
Soon the seneschal ceased and said: "Come with me;  
you will see the Prophetess now," and they walked  
through doorways, sills creaking a two-tone tune

she would find a comfort in her last days, pacing  
in prayer. a wonder, that she saw herself already  
belonging, who had never belonged somewhere  
or to someone -- despite her father's words, her  
student card, the little brick church's contract  
left behind with the upstairs apartment's trash.

through the doorway with its pair of ionic pillars,  
an office -- more a library -- ceiling-high shelves  
a nest strung about with yarn connecting books  
to books or to notes on the broad wooden desk.  
the inky black of the Prophetess in their midst  
a spider in her web. "Eva, please show her in,"

the Prophetess' command, and the seneschal  
shut the door behind them. she felt small, sitting  
there, a pile of bony knees and elbows. "Sister,"  
she heard far away, under water. Her eyes swam.  
"Sister," more insistent. The Prophetess stood,  
crossed over, pulled up a stool and sat across,

took her hands, stared into her eyes. time stopped  
and she wanted to shrink into a ball and vanish  
underneath the floorboards, but she forced herself  
to look back; their sight would meet thus again  
at the last. "There are no more tests. You belong  
to us now. Tell us one thing, though,"

the question began, and the words already poured  
out of her mouth, "if... if you ask whether i would  
face death then yes, i would, just hand me the knife" --  
the way she said it startled her, as if she knew --  
but the Prophetess' look stopped the words' flow:  
"No death yet; what we ask is harder still --

to live, for now; to work, for gain unknown; and,  
when time comes: yes, to die, perhaps alone.  
This is no test; we must know." she felt the calm  
settle, her pulse slow, the decisiveness return.  
her eyes still swam, but she could speak again:  
"Yes, Mistress, i am yours, i will serve."

and the Prophetess traced with sure finger three moons  
in one -- waxing, full, and waning -- on her forehead  
and her open palms. she felt well-trained wiry strength  
through black cloth's layers, death-wielding strength  
she would follow to the end. "let's plan the liturgy,"  
she spoke, and the two started to work.


	5. et signum magnum paruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the diary of the Prophetess, on first encountering her beloved.

a great sign appeared:   
a woman clothed in folds of blue --  
our Lady's color (sovegna vos!) --  
all gangly invisible bony legs and elbows,  
elf ears tucked in mousey wisps --  
and, those astonished, astonishing  
two dark pools -- oases of thirst --  
gazing: your long fingers' fidgets ceased  
and my tongue stumbled.  
i knew then i would name you  
I_____, the Beloved Disciple,  
Daughter, Sister -- in hushed breath,  
Mother, Bride -- and a secret title  
unwritten. for the hand will trouble  
your waters no more.


	6. Consecration

The Great Room -- she supposed every fraternity or sorority house, regardless how debauched, had one: warm-wood-paneled, a fireplace, worn leather chairs with brass knobs, with a little stage on one side -- had a table set up with a white cloth, _in forma altaris_. "You need no initiation or consecration, but appearance demands it," the Prophetess had said. Hence, this ritual they had hastily sketched on a torn notebook page (the warmth passing over her, thinking of the two of them, arm brushing arm in that inner chamber) -- the circle of sisters standing, shuffling a little impatiently -- the Prophetess, in black, long silver dagger at her side -- and herself, still in the blue dress, kneeling before the altar, which pointed away from campus and thus was east enough to count. (All the knowledge she had so secretly collected scrap-wise for so many years -- now, she trembled to feel the end of its gestation, among sisters, in secret, as she always wished.)

"Sorors of the World to Come, behold: Choirmaster, Foresinger, Ritual-shaper," the Prophetess announced, "your Sister. She came here as J____." She knelt, then, as planned, before the altar. "We dub you I_____." (None of those names really felt quite right, she thought. It felt wrong to have a name when "Sister" would do -- which was indeed the right name, the Nameless Name, in which her ego would finally die.) The Prophetess pulled off a glove (a shock, to see hands so calloused and scarred), struck each cheek, then bent down to kiss each side. "Arise," she whispered in her ear. She did, and turned to face the circle, to applause.

"I made wine punch," said a soft-looking one. "Sarah, you goof," Deidre scolded, and gave her a dramatically fake slug in the arm. "It's ****ing delicious; you better get some!", Deidre insisted through their affectionate tussle. J____ began to smile, just a little bit, as she walked out among her new sisters.


	7. Pavane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The content warnings apply here.

Sarah had planned a dance.  
She planned a dance, as she always did  
yearly, unbidden and grumbled-against,  
but all the sisters always came.

This time, J____ had helped plan,  
had exercised her expertise,  
had checked out recordings from the music library,  
could play continuo on the little keyboard  
for whatever band might form  
(the harpsichord stop sounded ridiculous though)  
or just DJ (she had learned a few things over time  
to pay the bills). But Sarah said:

"You're new here. Dance!  
Get to know everyone. You're still new here.  
You'll never know someone unless you dance with them."

And so J____ found herself twirling -- literally twirling,  
like in some Viennese new years' eve special,  
through a candle-lit hall of paneled warm wood,  
gliding from partner to partner, exchanging a word  
and passing on again as Sarah called the steps.  
She surprised herself by dancing competently,  
following like a mirror, as she had followed soloists  
from the organ loft or the harpsichord. A flush  
in her cheeks, from the movement and wine punch  
and a touch of self-confidence that she fought  
only feebly, caught her sight as she passed.

It was then that she found herself with the Prophetess,  
who had come in only late, who was dressed the same  
as always -- black, hooded, with a long silver dagger  
half-concealed at her side -- whose hands were cold,  
and whose breath was hot. As they danced, she told  
a story -- the same Story she told before in mythic terms,  
now retold in detail, plain and flat and awful.

two siblings, a sister -- a Sister -- the two alone  
to make the best of an empty house, their mother  
working or drug-addled or both -- the forest oft  
their second home, third witness to their sacred rites.  
frothing-drunken, a step-father of sorts entered,  
battering down the door, duct-taping her down,  
making her watch what he did to her Sister.

after, she watched in a dark forest hollow  
as her Sister ended her short life with the  
long knife, now unhallowed, that once had  
opened portals unseen. a hot tear slid down  
her cheek, whether hers or the Prophetess',  
she knew not, as they danced to the quiet  
flicker of low candles and Sarah's calls.


	8. RPG

“Where’d you get that?”

Deidre turned around suddenly enough for her neck to crack. She was sitting on a tightly-made bed in her sparsely furnished room, with a long black box at her feet, fitting together two matte-grey-green metal tubes. “Sarah -- you gave me a fright. Close the door behind you.”

“Is that -- what I think it is?” Sarah planted a kiss on Deidre’s left cheek and sat down beside her on the bed, staring at the device.

“Yeah. I got it at the flea market down in Missouri while I was picking up ammo. You can get anything there. They wouldn’t let me test it though -- ‘Would scare the llamas.’”

“It’s … illegal, right?”

Deidre chuckled at Sarah’s stage whisper. “It’s Missouri. Something something ‘CIA flooding the black market’ so I got it extra cheap.”

“Last time I saw one of those was in one of those ‘80s movies about Rambo in Afghanistan.” Sarah paused. “So, when do you want to …?”

Now Deidre lowered her voice. “Tonight, of course. Early morning, after closing time.”

“Nobody’s there, right? They don’t live there?”

“Who the **** would live in a porn shop?”

“You got me there.” Deidre laughed, provoking a little smile from Sarah, and the two locked eyes for a moment. “Be careful, OK?”

Deidre nodded. Sarah took in the silence for a second, then pulled out a dust cloth from her back pocket. “Gimme that,” she ordered, snatching the long tube from Deidre’s hands. “I’m not going to let you get all oily.”


	9. Emily's interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily quotes Emily Dickinson, as quoted in "Emily Dickinson's Letters," Thomas Wentworth Higginson, "The Atlantic," October 1891.
> 
> https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1891/10/emily-dickinsons-letters/306524/

J____ had a rite in mind, and her step sprung  
on her way to the chamber warmly wood-paneled --  
a Manisola, a consolation but no Consolamentum,  
as any Sisterhood-worthy had no regret to expunge.

The Prophetess stirred not as she joined her side,  
the desk's safe side, closed in by warm books.  
Their sleeves brushed for the briefest moment.  
Emily would come soon, blessed by tests exceeded.

The Seneschal would show her in; she would accept  
the final test; J____ would prepare her for the rite,  
draw the diagrams where to stand, sit, and kneel,  
teach what to speak or sing. She smiled at the knock.

Emily sat, small, pale, and troubled. "'Forgive me,'"  
she spoke, "'if I am frightened; I never see strangers,  
and hardly know what I say.'" And the thought of it  
tore at J____'s heart, though obedience kept her still.

"Two tests showed you know well what to say, Emily,"  
the Prophetess spoke, in a tone most but J____ would  
call a scold. "We know so little of you. Tell us  
what stirred you to come, to become a Good Sister."

"'A terror I could tell to none.'" And she spoke  
of the feeling of wrongness -- that J____ knew well  
in the awkward-fitting wrongness of temperaments --  
in which "'most people live without any thought,'"

but she could not. This was plain dogma;  
the Prophetess could not reject it, but pressed on  
nevertheless: "Emily, we want to know your thought,  
with which you live, when most do not."

For a long moment, Emily sat utterly still,  
her eyes downcast. When her gaze rose again,  
it gave a different look: the surgeon,  
grasping the scalpel, moving to the cut.

Her eyes met J____'s, and she asked:  
"Sister -- I don't know your name."  
J____ spoke it, as always unwillingly.  
"Sister J____, are you happy?"

Surgery, or fencing? J____ glanced at her Mistress,  
who issued a minute nod. A riposte, sans parry:  
"We are content here; we have found our purpose  
and we fulfill it, as rivers run down to oceans."

Truth, though plain dogma. Emily advanced:  
"Who is this 'we'? It can be only three:  
the Sisterhood together, you two, or you alone.  
You seem not one to claim a royal prerogative.

"No, nor to take another's voice unknown to them."  
J____ shifted; her Mistress judged the bout unmoved.

"Then there is a word you avoid," Emily pressed,  
"at my question's core: the word those of the flesh  
use to speak of oneself alone."

"Do you mean 'I'?" It tasted ill, that word.

"Yes. I want to know how you feel. Are you happy?"

"The question presumes: A monad apart from its role,  
or its joyful dissolution as one of the Good Sisters."

"Yet you came of your own accord; no river  
unconscious, pulled by its own weight, but spirit  
on two legs, casting itself into the ocean."  
Emily, unmoved, regarded J____'s discomfort.

"No, no, ... I ... am not happy."

The Prophetess gave but the slightest look  
as the words poured from her. "No, I am not happy,  
for when I came here, when I sat where you sit now,  
I longed for death, but my Mistress forbade it,  
saying that my time was not yet, that I must work.  
She is right (blessed be!) and I work, I persist  
in inhabiting the body, but I am not happy, not yet."

Emily nodded, her eyes glowing. "'When I state myself,  
as the representative of the verse, it does not mean me,  
but a supposed person.'" And J____ and her Mistress  
both understood: "and you yourself a sword shall pierce,

that the thoughts of many hearts might be revealed."


End file.
